Better
by Tangledupandsideways
Summary: "You think you're too good for me, but you make me good" Inspired by Exposed and a little tidbit from Double Blind


A/N: I have had this in a folder for months, nearly finished, but never feeling quite right. I think it's better now, but you tell me (pardon the pun).

He's always more honest when he has been drinking, only then he wears a much harder edge to his expression, a stoniness that almost suggests that he doesn't feel at all. But when poked and prodded, when all shaken up in some feeling or another, everything comes loose like locks of hair falling free from a ponytail. And as those emotions settle on his features, he seems an entirely different man. He is completely and utterly true.

It is in these moments that she can read him, just look at him and practically feel every thought that crosses his mind. Under normal circumstances, she would always choose respect. She would look in his eyes, only his eyes, and numb herself to the movements of his face. She would refuse to acknowledge the emotions, the truths, that he showed her when she wasn't supposed to be looking, when he wasn't lucid enough to keep her from doing so. But things had changed when he said those words, made that sickeningly honest confession. When he told not her, but her boyfriend at the time that he wanted her _in the worst possible way._

She had always assumed her feelings had been apparent to him, but perhaps his doubt is greater than she'd imagined. He had called her his blind spot many times and she thought she understood how that worked, though she had never really experienced it firsthand. Since she had learned the science, she'd never loved anyone so much as to be blinded. She knows every lie Alec had ever told her, could probably recite them word for word. And Cal is her best friend, but also the best liar she knows. She can only read him when he shows himself to her, when he wants her to. But is it really possible for him not to have seen it? Not to have known?

She feels so incredibly guilty as she enters his office with that bottle of scotch in her hand, suggesting they celebrate another case solved. They both know that her intent is not to celebrate, but he doesn't press her for the truth. After all, she had been mourning the loss of a lover and it is in times like these when she needs him, though she hates to need anyone at all. And so he stands from his sprawl in his desk chair and makes his way over to the couch with two empty tumblers. When he had made himself comfortable on the couch next to Gillian, he throws an arm about her shoulder. But it isn't a comfort to her, as it usually is. She is tense beneath the muscles of his arm, rigid because she knows that what she is about to do could hurt him, could hurt them both.

They drink in near silence, the only sounds in the room their breathing and the sloshing of the liquid against glass. When the silence become tense and strained, he breaks it.

"Sorry about...what happened," he says.

"Yeah," she replies, her words flat, even sad.

She downs the rest of the glass in one gulp, drowning out the feelings swimming in her gut; the sadness and the guilt and the quaking nervousness. He finishes his glass as well, pouring out more for the both of them. He knows her, knows that she has rules about these kinds of things, having grown up with an alcoholic father. To think Burns had enough of a hold on her after so little time to have her break them worries him very much. And it hits him that she was probably in love with the man. It's enough to make him reach for the bottle and pour himself even more.

It doesn't take long before Cal is buzzed, bordering on drunkeness. Gillian looks at the slackness of his face and takes in a deep breath.

"Cal, what did you mean earlier? With Dave?"

His confusion is clear on his face as he asks her to be specific.

There's a lump im her throat as she speaks again.

"He said you were jealous. And you said...well, you know what you said," she hesistates.

His surprise is evident, then a smug Lightman grin washes over his face.

"That I want you, Gill? Want me to want you?"

"Cal," she says, her voice a warning.

It seems to sober him, his expression near jaded.

"It wouldn't matter. I'm no good for you, love," he says.

"What you feel always matters," she replies.

"Nah, Gill. You're too good for me," he says.

It takes a long time for her to say anything as she debates telling a lie, but if she's forcing the truth from him, it'd feel wrong not to tell the truth also.

"You think that- that I'm too good for you, but you _make_ me good"

"No, Gill. You've always been good. You are good."

"Cal," she stresses, forcing him to see the truth on her features, hear it in her tone.

"I grew up in a place where I learned only bitterness and resentment and shame. That's all I learned. But you, you make me forget all of that. I'm better with you. I'm good because of you. You _make_ me good."

He just looks at her open-mouthed for a moment, before drawing his jaw back up and cocking his head at her.

"You make me good," she insists.

He blatantly reads her as best he can in his inebriated state. But she sees his disbelief morph into a resignation tinged Lightman smug.

"Only better," is his insisted remark.

"Better," she agrees, so quietly he strains to hear it.

And then they're kissing, consuming each other's energies and passions, swallowing each other's sighs. Their limbs tangle like fishing line as they press desperately and deliciously closer. And in every way it's perfect, in every way it's right.

He pulls back with great restraint, chest heaving.

"I meant what I said," he clarified. "But even more than wanting you, I love you."

She's stunned silent for a beat, then she's kissing him again, hard and desperate. The roughness of his reciprocation grounds her in the moment, in him, in the two of them together in a way she hadn't dared to desire. She pulls him closer roughly, collecting handfuls of his cotton shirt in her fists. Only when they are unable to get adequate amounts of oxygen do they part.

There's a truth still stewing somewhere inside of her, not quite cooked through, but all if a sudden, she wants to voice it, wants him to know.

"I'm pretty sure I love you, too."

His smile is quirky crooked and frankly adorable. And of course, she can't help but smile back. And she knows, deep in her soul, Burns was never her Captain America after all. It had always been Cal who saved her from the darkness within herself. It had always been Cal who made her better.


End file.
